Three Mornings
by ImpishTubist
Summary: Killer Christmas trees. Possessed mannequins. Spaceships falling from the sky. Over the course of three mornings in 2007, John Watson begins to suspect that perhaps spending Christmas in London isn't the best of ideas.


_Author's Note: My first attempt at a Sherlock fic. Unbeta'd, so my apologies for any mistakes. I've fudged the timelines a bit so that events in "Sherlock" coincide with the third season of "Doctor Who." Feedback is much appreciated!_

I.

As with all of London – well, all of London sans Sherlock – John was learning to treat the approach of the Christmas season with weary trepidation. The year of the possessed mannequins was not one he was going to forget in this lifetime; the shopping experience had been hellish, and he swore off all gift-giving right then and there. It wasn't worth the trouble.

It was during his deployment the following year that he received a call from Harry that sounded as though she needed to be committed – killer Christmas trees and evil Santas, indeed. He would have written it off as babble brought about by a drunken stupor had he not seen the footage himself while crammed around a small television with his men – millions of people, one-third of London's population and including the royal family, all poised on rooftops as though about to jump.

Though it wasn't just Christmas, John realized while walking home from the shops one cool morning (They had needed milk. Again. John really did wish Sherlock would stop using their food for experiments). Royal Hope Hospital had, well, _disappeared_ that spring, and not three years ago a spaceship had seemingly crashed into the Thames, though the news services called that particular incident a hoax. All of Downing Street had been wiped out in the ensuing debacle – couldn't very well call that a hoax, could they? Although, then they had gotten Harriet Jones as Prime Minister, so it hadn't _all _been a disaster. Nice woman. He'd voted for her. It was really too bad about the –

He rounded the corner and nearly slammed into Sally, the kind-if-quiet woman who helped to run Sparrow & Nightingale. She was standing outside the shop, holding a purple folder and having an excited discussion with a man in a trench coat who looked slightly perplexed. John nodded to Sally, though she didn't notice, and sidestepped the group.

"Listen, got to dash," the man was telling her hurriedly as John walked past. He was carrying a crossbow and looking rather wild. "Things happening. Well – four things. Well – four things and a lizard."

_Sounds like something Sherlock would get himself into_, John mused, and then quickly squashed that train of thought as he realized that he could not recall what his flat mate had been up to when he had left for the shops, but remembered an unassuming conversation they had had the other week involving a duck, a lizard, and a spoon. He hurried home, hoping that the strange man with the crossbow would not make an appearance. Sherlock did enough damage with that gun of his; what _would_ Mrs. Hudson say if she had to dig arrows out of her nice walls, too?

II.

John was sitting at the desk, updating his blog on a deceptively cloudless morning – it was damned bitter out there, despite what the sun wanted them to believe - when an unexpected shadow plunged the living room into a temporary darkness. He glanced at the lights – _no flickering_ – and then turned to stare out the window. He blinked, swiped a hand across his eyes, and then blinked again.

"Sherlock, I think a pterodactyl just flew by the window."

"Don't be silly, John." Sherlock was bent over a microscope in the kitchen and did not bother to look up. "It was a pterandon. Learn the difference."

"Oh. Right then." John scratched the back of his head in confusion. He could have _sworn_ such creatures were extinct. Then again, he didn't keep up with news from the scientific circles. Perhaps a nest had been discovered somewhere remote and tropical while he had been deployed; seemed as though discoveries like that were becoming more and more common nowadays, what with continued expansion and new technologies. Yes. That must be it. 'Sorry."

"John, a very properly-dressed man will be darting across the street in about ten seconds." Sherlock paused to scribble something in his notebook. "Would you be so kind as to open the window and ask him if he is in need of some chocolate?"

III.

"Anything interesting?" John asked quietly, stopping dead in his tracks at the bottom of the stairs. He had awoken that morning at a decent hour – which, when one had Sherlock as a flatmate, meant after six – and wandered downstairs to find Sherlock crouched in a chair in the living room, staring intently at the television with his arms folded tightly across his chest. The sight immediately struck John as Not Right. Sherlock never watched the news, not even when there had been a murder; it was too predictable, too dull. To see him watching it now was – unsettling.

"No," Sherlock drawled, much to John's relief, and reached for the remote. "Woman was killed by her husband – obvious, of course. You could tell by his shirt collar."

"Is that so?" John said distractedly. He walked into the kitchen to look for food and grew dismayed when he found none. He had _just_ gone to the shops. "Interesting."

"Mm. Not really." Sherlock unfolded himself from the chair and straightened. "Oh, and the _Titanic _nearly crashed into Buckingham Palace. Well, a replica, at any rate, though not a very good one."

Must be Christmas, then. "Sorry - a _what_ fell onto Buckingham Palace?"

"Also, sales are up at the shops this year," Sherlock continued as though John hadn't spoken. "Would you like me to continue? I could give you the reports verbatim, if so desired."

"Sherlock, did you just say that a replica of the _Titanic_ fell onto _London_?"

"_Nearly_ fell, and yes. Torchwood doesn't seem to be doing its job very well, does it? A bit careless, I would say, seeing as how they've had nearly one hundred and fifty years to study aliens and the like. I wonder if Mycroft – " Sherlock waved a hand and trailed off, as he was wont to do when a sentence bored him; he didn't see the point in finishing.

"_Aliens_?"

"Yes, aliens, John. Do keep up."

John blinked, and then shook his head. Perhaps he had missed more than he thought during his deployment. Yes, that was it. Of course. Harry had been too busy with her own problems to inform him of the fact that alien life not only had been discovered but also had a nasty habit of descending upon England in general and London in particular. He would have to phone her later and find out just what the _hell_ he had missed while in Afghanistan.

"I've been thinking, Sherlock."

"Really, John, I've asked you not to do that. I don't keep you around for your thoughts, you know."

"Yes, well – I did it anyway. I was thinking that maybe next Christmas we should, you know – go somewhere. Get out of the country for a bit. Might do some good."

"And miss all the excitement? Don't be absurd, John."

"I was afraid you might say that," John said with a sigh, and was comforted by the thought that it couldn't get much worse than spaceships falling out of the sky.

Probably. Well, maybe.

_Damn_.


End file.
